dagger

there is no gelt     in this writing lark      no real profit      no final reward      just a hunger      an insatiable need         to press the keys        and play the notes         that fill the page       all writing is futile      I can’t express how I feel        not in so many words     I’d like to take my pain      roll it into a ball       and stuff it in your mouth    so you’d be mute like me       your seams leaking      blotting your copy book      with a silent crimson scream

but those are just  words     I don’t mind you in the least     you brought me more pleasure      than a thousand dead poets

 “The only good poet is a dead poet.”

 isn’t that what you said?    imposters pout and posture      all across the page     with borrowed icons     and stolen voices       but genius lays face down in the gutter     death is the final measure     of dedication to the craft       but not for me darlin’    I don’t believe in tragedy    and I want to score in this life     not the next   I don’t intend to exit  prematurely         but after a long while       when I’ve perfected      my papers       and catalogued     my women     in alphabetical order    or numerical significance      according to rank  and ability

I like my words jagged    as crocodile teeth       dirty as a whore’s tongue       and rabid as the breath of infected dogs        I don’t require prettifying           or disinfecting      keep those nice words       for old ladies       to sprinkle on their cakes      I want you to feel me in you     I have no time       for ambiguity          or tickling ears       I want to ram my words       right down your throat            one day I’ll find the beat       that forces the rhythm          of my concoction          into your heart       like a fucking dagger